Saturday, August 02, 2014

Let it be said, perhaps with a sigh that only the tired wind hears
That a poem must not be written; no, it must be torn
To little writhing bits before its birth.
The burden of dark history and forgettable deeds
Of evil men and rushing sorrow, repeated again
And again and again.
Why write about them
And make them seem seductively charming?
Time is just a sequence, I did hear once
Of microscopic seconds laden with very sharp pain
All rushing towards a pulling dark closure
Of what use is a poem, to celebrate this absurdity?

Oh, you say you wish to write about flowers, love, the sun,
The meadows and someone you miss? Well, what a waste
For none of that lasts, joining that same magnificent current
Towards the same crushing finality. Well, fine
Go ahead and write a poem, and celebrate
Your weak pretense of an existence, which is really
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Perhaps a little
Speck of brown sand in a corner of the Sahara.
Is that what you want? Please proceed, oh you must
If you wish, I shall search and search and then search again
For that speck, if it takes a billion years
And when I see it,
I shall make note of what you thought
Was necessary to make permanent, though I must politely confess
It seems rather trite, rather similar to so many other moments (specks)
Of so many people who came and went, unnoticed, discarded.

I appear to have hurt your feelings, for which I am so sorry
But there again, that sudden twinge of a nerve, of a feeling
An overrated emotion, an exaggerated sense of self, uniqueness,
Identity (and some other synonym you may know) – well, that
Has no meaning whatsoever and will not be acknowledged
In the massive diary of that bearded chap sitting solemnly behind
A creaking desk, supported by bored clouds.
He – he calls himself God, did you know - is far too busy plotting and planning
Punishing and rewarding ad infinitum, rather stupidly, because he is BORED
And never acquired the skills needed to live forever
I mean permanently, devoid of the sense of time
Though he probably watches on his own nice control room
Flat panel monitor, that same rushing current
Of people, feelings, thoughts, pain, happiness, kindness, cruelty
All powdered and processed, heading towards that black hole